


New All Over Again

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Boys Kissing, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Celebrations, Childhood Sweethearts, Drinking to Cope, Holidays, Journalist Dean Winchester, Journalist Sam Winchester, M/M, New Beginnings, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, New Years, New York City, Painter Castiel (Supernatural), Reunions, Tropes Ahoy, times square
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Dean and Cas as childhood sweethearts separated as teenagers who have been searching for each other for years without success. Against all odds, they reunite in the middle of Times Square at midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 102
Kudos: 655
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	New All Over Again

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [CoinofStone](coinofstone.tumblr.com) and [Pingnova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pingnova/pseuds/pingnova/works) for the editing assist. :-)

This was a terrible, terrible idea. _Why_ did he allow Sam to drag him out here, again? Dean scowls and pouts as he extracts his flask from where it’s secured to his hip, tipping the bottom up to the sky to drain the last few drops. _Fucking fantastic,_ now he’s out of liquor, too. 

Shivering, Dean puts the flask away and jams his ungloved hands into the pockets of his too-thin jacket. It’s alright for a Kansas winter, for shuffling from car to home or work and vice versa, but the fabric just isn’t quite doing it for New York City in the dead of night. Ten degrees and no sun makes a _hell_ of a difference in feel if Dean does say so himself, and the goose pimples on his skin say he really fucking does.

Looking around, Dean can’t help the way his annoyance grows. All of these people surrounded by concrete and steel and subways and god knows what else, the fact that the sheer number of _living,_ writhing bodies doesn’t in any way counteract the cold feels mocking. Which is consistent, really, with Dean’s feelings about his entire life and existence, so why he’s even bothering with the token surprise at this particular irony is beyond him. 

_Where is Sam, anyway?_ Dean’s been freezing his nuts off standing outside this restaurant on the outskirts of Times Square for almost half an hour now and it’s not like it takes that long to piss. 

Irritation swirls as a laughing group of girls stumble into his space, nearly knocking him off balance and into the glass storefront he’s basically already pressed up against to avoid traffic. The high-heeled, doe-eyed brunette whose sidestep has her grabbing at Dean’s shoulder for balance is stunning, classic one-night-stand material if Dean’s ever seen it. But when she looks up at him and blinks her mascara-darkened eyelashes, Dean finds that his heart just isn’t in it.

Though it would serve Sam right if he wasn’t here when the inconsiderate moose finally makes his way out again. Just on that basis alone, Dean reconsiders. Tugging her miniskirt back into place, the girl touches his arm with manicured nails, drags her full bottom lip through her teeth, says something about how Dean is _handsome,_ how she’s headed to a party and still needs a date. 

_It might be fun,_ Dean thinks. God forbid he actually _try_ and have a good time tonight. But he can’t do it, can’t quite reconcile the idea of burying himself between this girls’ legs, kissing her pretty, lipstick-sticky mouth, when his mind is so permanently stuck elsewhere.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he replies with a flash of pearly whites that have her friends giggling behind her. “Kinda late for my own party. Just waitin’ on my brother.” 

Dean has no idea what he expected, but the girl just smiles and shrugs and continues on down the street without so much as a backward glance. A blip on her radar, that’s all Dean would have been even if he _did_ go to the party with her, so why does her ambivalence now feel so shitty? 

Checking over his shoulder and scanning the restaurant through the window for any sign of Sam, Dean sighs and scuffs at the dirty pavement with his shoe. His phone says an hour to midnight and Dean’s never wished harder for time to move faster. The sooner Sam can see his stupid ball drop, the sooner Dean can get back to their motel, empty out the minibar and pass out to the familiar sounds of _Scooby-Doo,_ the only constant his life seems like it’s going to get _._ In the meantime, though, he’s out of alcohol and not nearly drunk enough for any of this. Not for the first time, Dean eyes the liquor store a block or so down, darting glances between it and the overflowing restaurant behind him. 

With no sign of Sam, Dean makes a decision and sets off without so much as texting his brother. Serves his ass right for not just peeing on the side of a building down an alley like every other goddamn heathen out here.

Dean walks as swiftly as possible considering the mobs of people, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he weaves through reveling partiers and every type of person in every stage of intoxication, most of which Dean wishes he were closer to than sober right now. He’s _not_ normally this type of miserable, he’s not, but with the crowds and the pushing people and the noises and the smells… this might actually be Dean’s worst nightmare. The wind chaps his cheeks and nose and Dean wishes he’d been smart enough to bring a scarf. Or a hat. Or literally any outwear that isn’t a canvas jacket, _fuck, why_ did he let Sam talk him into this shit? 

The line for the liquor store wraps all the way around inside it— _twice_. Dean’s not picky, so he drops in behind the last customer right away and just grabs the first decent bottle of whiskey he comes across on the slow trudge to the register. As an afterthought, he picks up a tiny sample bottle of honey whiskey too, even though just looking at it threatens to worsen his already foul mood. Unbidden, memories of hot summer nights and sticky-sweet lips pressing against his own surface in Dean’s mind. A bottle not unlike the one in his hands passed between them, the stars bright and the waves of the lake noisy as they lap gently at the sides of Cas’ dad’s boat. _Honey whiskey,_ better from Cas’ lips than from the source, making them both buzzy and half-delirious as the motion of the water rocks the boat back and forth, back and forth. 

A smarter, less self-destructive man would put the little bottle back and forget about it. But never let it be said that Dean Winchester has laid any claim to the label _smart_ , least of all where it concerns Cas. 

There’s unfortunately not a whole lot to do in the liquor store but think, what with the endless line and all. After uncapping the big bottle and taking a few long swigs, Dean pulls out his phone. Sam still hasn’t checked in but Dean sends a message off to him anyway, so he doesn’t return from the longest piss in recorded history to find Dean is gone and panic. He’s considerate like that. After, when the buzz is starting to kick in and his scrolling of social media fails to catch his interest, Dean swipes over to the safari tab he keeps permanently open and directed to ‘peoplesearch.com’. His thumb hovers and doesn’t press down, the alcohol he’s imbibed apparently not enough to erase Dean’s guilt over the fact that he should be having _fun_ tonight, should fucking take _one_ night off from working and searching for Cas. 

But old habits die hard, and Dean’s just on the wrong side of tipsy to be able to lie to himself. Hell, if it were up to him he’d be back at their motel room doing exactly this, except, you know. Sitting. And warm, instead of being blasted by thirty-degree winds every time the door opens, which thanks to the crowd is every few seconds. _Castiel Novak,_ he types and then hits _search._ First national, then local to where he is this week, in this case, New York City, New York.

_No Results._

It’s not like Dean didn’t already know that’s what it would say. He’s been searching for years now, without so much as a breadcrumb trail. Zero _Castiel Novaks_ in the entire US of A, at least as far as Dean’s been able to tell. At least as far as the internet is concerned. The _only_ reason Dean’s still holding out any kind of hope that Cas is not dead and instead, just some weirdo who’s clinically averse to social media and apparently hasn’t had a documented physical address in over seven years is that there haven’t been any obituaries for him, either. Knowing Naomi Novak (and Dean does, unfortunately), no matter what happened between her and her son, she’d co-opt the fuck out of his untimely death, should she be given _half_ a chance to do so. If Cas were dead, it’s not like he’d be able to stop her.

That logic is thin at best, but it’s what Dean holds onto day in and day out, and he’s not interested in dissecting it to the point where he can’t anymore. Not that he’s delusional or anything. Dean knows well enough that he may never find Cas, may never live to see him again. Or hell, maybe Cas _is_ dead and Dean is quite literally chasing a ghost. He snorts a little and the woman in front of him turns to glare suspiciously, but Dean ignores her. Not for the first time, he wonders if his and Sam’s careers have hurt him in that way. If perhaps he’d just stayed in one place, if Cas would have eventually found _him._

Of course, that’s making the assumption that Cas is even looking, but there’s another thing that until proven otherwise, Dean has to believe. He thinks back on the last time he saw Cas, when neither of them had any idea that _this_ goodbye would be their last. Dean was seventeen, Sam thirteen and they’d come home from school to find their father dead on the kitchen floor. Cas had been there too, because Cas was always there, a fixture in Dean’s life since as far back as he could remember. First friends, then boyfriends, all of their firsts handed over easily to the other like it was destined to be that way between them forever. 

At the hospital, Cas had held Dean’s free hand while he stroked Sam’s hair where he lay bawling in Dean’s lap. The three of them had been otherwise quiet as Dean and Sam came to terms with their new status as orphans, their mother having preceded their father back when Dean was only four. Just as he did back then, Dean tried his hardest to be strong for his younger brother, not shedding one single tear. Instead, he’d sat there squeezing Castiel’s fingers until they were nearly white, feeling the comforting heat of his shoulder pressing into Dean’s own. True to form, Castiel hadn’t so much as blinked while his hand was crushed, stoic and steady and the hero that even as a hormone-driven teenager, Dean couldn’t help but fall in love with. 

When Social Services came to collect them, Dean assumed that he and Sam would be unceremoniously dumped at a group home, or maybe with a foster family if they were lucky. He assumed he’d see Cas at school only a few hours later. He assumed everything would continue on as normal within days of John Winchester’s passing, after all, he was never much of a father to begin with. Most importantly, he assumed he’d have Cas by his side to help him—to help _them—_ through it all. Dean made a lot of assumptions that night, and nearly all of them were wrong. Worst of all, he’d been too shaken, too messed up to remember to kiss Castiel goodbye, and now, seven years later, he’s stuck with the possibility (the _likelihood)_ that he might never get to do so again.

Because that night he and Sam had been driven downtown to the bleak offices Social Services occupied in Lawrence proper and made to sleep on cots in a storage room while caseworkers sorted through what to do with them. The next morning they were shaken awake but instead of being driven to school, were taken to their childhood home and told to collect anything and everything they might want to keep. There wasn’t much, there’d never been much. All of Dean and Sam’s personal belongings combined fit in one suitcase, and that suitcase was loaded alongside them onto a plane that took them to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 

Apparently, John had named an old friend of his—Bobby Singer—Dean and Sam’s legal guardian in the event that something happened to him. It was the _one_ thing John did right for them after their mother died, even though he’d never so much as bothered to warn Dean. 

The thing was, Bobby had some particular feelings about John and about the way things should be from there on out, and that changed everything, too. They didn’t return to Lawrence, not even for a funeral seeing as how John didn’t have any friends who would have attended anyhow. Instead, John was cremated, his ashes _mailed_ to Sioux Falls, and Dean and Sam were expected to look forward, not back. 

Not that Bobby stopped Dean from communicating with his friends back home, nothing like that. And Dean tried. He called, left heaps of messages on Castiel’s home phone that were never picked up, never returned. When that didn’t work, he wrote letters. They weren’t sent back, but they weren’t answered, either. It confused Dean to no end that Castiel would cut him off that way, and it never sat quite right with him. As soon as he turned eighteen, Dean took off in the old ‘67 Chevy Impala Bobby had helped him restore in the salvage yard he owned, intent on returning to Lawrence and finding out what happened to Castiel. The Cas he knew and loved would never have abandoned him like that. 

As soon as he arrived on the Novak’s familiar doorstep, it all became very clear. Naomi Novak, Castiel’s mother, had never liked Dean and never pretended to. In his absence, it was all too easy for her to get in between them; to block his calls, intercept his letters, and to generally act as if Dean had forgotten Castiel altogether. In his heart, Dean knew Castiel wouldn’t have bought that schtick, _felt_ it in his bones that Castiel must have begged and pleaded with his mother for any scrap of info, for a way to contact Dean. Naomi herself was all too pleased to vaguely confirm those things, though her face turned pinched and sour when Dean asked quietly while carefully controlling his rage, where Castiel was now. 

“Gone,” was all she’d said before slamming the door in his face. 

Asking around town didn’t yield any further information than that. Castiel never had many friends besides Dean and Sam, and while people generally seemed to know that he’d left the area, no one had any details or a forwarding address. Some people claimed he’d had an extremely public falling out with Naomi, which gave Dean a glimmer of satisfaction, circumstances aside. Desperate, Dean had tried other avenues, too. He found out from Social Services that Castiel had enquired after him there, but they hadn’t legally been able to give him any info. They’d offered to hold a forwarding address or number, but at the time, Castiel hadn’t had one to leave.

And that was that. Dean had been forced to leave town for the second time with Castiel’s trail simply dried up and vanished as if he never existed at all. He returned to Sioux Falls and tried to forget, tried to move on the best that he could, but it never really took. Within months, Dean had become obsessed with searching for any sign, _anything_ that might lead him to Castiel. 

In fact, he’d gotten so wrapped up in searching, Dean quickly found himself a high school graduate with no job, few skills, and fewer prospects. Feeling like he was spiraling, Dean impulsively planned a summer road trip and with Bobby’s blessing, took Sam with him. While on the road, they were fond of seeking out the local legends and lore of the towns they stumbled through, and Sam, the nerd, started taking notes. It wasn’t until almost a month after they returned that Sam showed him the results—a webpage, one that chronicled their journey, especially those stops. Sam had taken the time to transcribe his notes about various urban legends, weaving them through with their own experiences in each town and posting them for the world to see. 

As it turns out, there’s a hell of an audience for that sort of thing. For the next couple of years, while Sam finished school, Dean kept it up. He’d work in Bobby’s auto repair business most of the time, but he’d also travel, checking out local legends and stories that either he or Sam found online. If the town in question was close enough to Sioux Falls, he’d take Sam over the weekend and they’d check it out together. Otherwise, Dean would go alone and take detailed notes, helping Sam transform them into something postable when he returned home. 

Their website grew popular enough to bring in passive income with ad-support. Pretty soon, Dean was traveling more often than not, and Sam was increasingly desperate to come with. At first, Dean was wholly against that idea. Sam was meant for bigger and better things. College, maybe even law or medical school after that. But Sam was also stubborn as hell, and when he decided to do something, there was no talking him out of it.

Which brings them to today and why they’re here in New York. This was a sponsored trip, a pitch, really, which is the _only_ reason Dean agreed to get anywhere near midtown Manhattan on this godforsaken holiday. There’s a network that caught wind of their site and their cult following, and they’re interested in possibly creating a TV series based on Dean and Sam’s brotherly misadventures into debunking the supernatural. Part of that interest involves him and Sam drifting a little further into the hokey, money-making side of things than Dean originally intended, performing exorcisms and house-cleansings and other marketable services to rid a person or place of unwanted oogity-boogities. 

Sure, it’s cheesy and borderline unethical, but they’ve got bills to pay and no one’s _forcing_ these people to ask for their help. A lot of them seem genuinely thankful, anyway, real spirits or no. 

Regardless, while Sam might have an actual interest in the journalism aspect of the work they do, Dean’s only ever been using this job for one thing. In every town, every city, every _everywhere_ he stops, Dean looks for Cas. Beyond his internet searches in a way that only actually _being_ somewhere will allow you to look. 

Of course, he knows this is insane. That the world is too damn big for this to be any kind of effective. That Cas may not even be in the United States anymore, never mind that Dean could travel like this for the rest of his life and never get anywhere near him. 

But what else is he supposed to do? Dean’s tried to move on, it didn’t work. He’s dated, even managed to hold up a semi-healthy relationship with a nice girl named Lisa for over a year. That was nice, in its own way. Dean enjoyed having a place to come home to in between trips out on the road, but he’d inevitably head back out and Lisa got fed up with the comings and goings after too long. It was only when they’d finally broken things off that Dean was really forced to confront reality. Whatever he thought he had with Lisa, it wasn’t love. Losing her wasn’t _fun,_ not by any means, but it didn’t hurt, not the way he _still_ hurts over Cas. 

Lost in thought, Dean doesn’t notice the line in front of him move up several places, leaving a large gap between him and the register. A disgruntled rumbling behind him shakes his brain back to reality, and Dean steps up to the counter mumbling insincere apologies. Paying with cash, he takes his brown-bagged bottle and slips the little honey whiskey into his pocket without dwelling too much on why he wants it. He’ll drink it at midnight, have his own little pity party celebration, letting the taste drag him down into the past while he imagines kissing it off of Cas’ lips. 

The cold snaps at Dean’s face as soon as he steps outside, the warmth from the store wiping away any tolerance he might have built up from standing outside all afternoon and evening. As he heads back towards the restaurant, Dean can see Sammy from far away, over a head taller than everyone else on the street. As he approaches, Dean thinks about just begging Sam to let him off the hook. They could still go back to the motel and finish out this night like every other New Years’ Eve the two of them have shared together in recent years; drunk and in front of a crappy TV set, sprawled out on one shitty double bed each. With all of Dean’s reminiscing about Cas, the idea feels more hollow than it did hours earlier, but still _way_ better than freezing his ass off out here. 

Except, by the time Dean gets within shouting distance, he’s smacked in the face with the realization that Sam is not alone. There’s a girl with him, but not just any girl. That’s _Eileen_ he’s standing with, the chick Sam had a summer fling with while they were on an extended case in New Jersey over a year ago. 

Narrowing his eyes, Dean stalks closer to where the two of them are making googly eyes at each other, laughing and shoving at shoulders playfully, fingers twisting together and _ugh, gag._ As if he wasn’t already in a bad enough mood, Sam _totally_ played him. And Dean should have guessed, should have fucking known. It’s not like Times Square on New Years’ Eve is _Sam’s_ goddamn scene, either. Still, Dean’s more hurt than he is angry. Why couldn’t Sam have just _told_ him that Eileen was in town, that he wanted to meet up with her and hang out? It’s not like Dean wouldn’t have understood, wouldn’t have been cool with that. 

Stopping ten or so feet from where Sam and Eileen are still mercilessly flirting and oblivious to his presence, realization dawns over Dean. It’s _not_ like Sam to sneak around like this, to try to pull one over on him. Sam’s a good guy, a great brother, and Dean’s an ass. All of his searching, his moping, his inability to move past Cas—of course, Sam noticed. And as much as he might care about Eileen, _of course_ , Sam didn’t want to ditch him and ruin Dean’s evening either. It’d be easier, smoother for them to “bump into” her. After all, he and Sam spent the whole day together up to this point, sightseeing and sampling the local flavor. And doesn’t that make Dean feel guilty as all hell.

His little brother deserves his own life, too. Deserves to be happy, to spend time with Eileen and not have Dean drunkenly third-wheeling with his miserable thoughts and his mopey, lonely attitude. Quietly and without alerting Sam, Dean backs away, disappearing into the crowd before either of the lovebirds can take notice. When he makes it a block or so away, Dean takes out his phone and sends one last message telling Sam he caught an invite to a party, that he’ll meet him back at the motel later or tomorrow morning and to not wait up. 

And then he walks. Suddenly, the empty motel room is the last place Dean wants to be. His phone screen says it’s only fifteen minutes to midnight and hell, Times Square is right here, might as well do this once-in-a-lifetime thing. Once in a lifetime, because he’s _never_ coming back to this mob scene again. 

Despite the tightly packed throngs, Dean’s able to make his way fairly close to where the ball drops. There’s a pop star singing on an elevated platform in the middle of the square and it’s loud despite his relative distance from the stage. Everything is bright and lit up in neon, people screaming and laughing and hugging and it makes Dean feel even more lonely. He sticks close to the buildings, the only possible place a person can move in any direction this far down, finally finding a free spot to lean against a storefront and sip from his bottle. 

With only five minutes on the countdown to go, Dean hardly notices as the glass door next to him opens and a man trudges out holding what appears to be a large canvas wrapped in brown paper and string. In fact, he only takes notice at all because it’s so strange that someone would try to carry something that large and unwieldy through a crowd like _this._

Dean glances up and back only to realize that he’s standing in front of a gallery, not a store, and one that apparently had some sort of event earlier this evening. Everyone’s cleared out since, no doubt to take to the streets and watch the ball drop, leaving party debris and trays of food behind, alongside tons of unsold paintings. 

The room and its last two occupants are otherwise unremarkable, but for whatever reason Dean turns to take a second look. In retrospect, he couldn’t say why his attention was seemingly snagged by the man standing in the middle of the room whose face he didn’t get a good look at, but it was almost like… something about the guy was _calling_ to him. And when the dark-haired man turns around far enough for Dean to be able to see him clearly, he abruptly realizes why. 

_Cas._

Frozen in place, all Dean can do is stare. On the other side of the glass, Castiel, wild-haired and bright blue-eyed as ever, drops his champagne glass and pales like he’s seen a ghost. 

If that reaction alone wasn’t proof-positive, Castiel himself _is._ He’s older, tanner, more filled out; but it’s unquestionably _him._ There are fine lines at the corners of his eyes and Dean hopes, he _hopes_ they’re from laughing. He’s beautiful, as beautiful as the day Dean left him waving goodbye below the neon-lit entrance to the emergency room, the side of his face illuminated by the red light of the sign. 

Inside, Cas is across the room in a flash, stepping up to the plate-glass window as if Dean isn’t _right_ on the other side, as if opening the door and stepping outside might shatter the illusion, making one or both of them disappear. Dean shares the sentiment, raising his palm to the window and watching as Castiel mimics the gesture, a thin layer of glass all that separates them for the first time in so many years. 

With his head tilted and his eyes narrowed in question, Castiel is so painfully familiar, so surreal and yet so _right fucking there_ Dean can hardly stand it. And while Dean can trace the movement of Castiel’s lips as they mouth his name, neither of them can seemingly bring themselves to move. 

That is, until the noise around Dean ratchets up a notch. 

The start of the countdown rips Dean’s attention away from Cas, makes him look up and towards the sky where the ball has started to drop. 

_“Ten… Nine…”_

The reminder snaps Castiel back to life too and he bolts, shoving open the gallery door and bursting through it like he had to do it all in one jump, lest he lose his nerve. He holds his hand out in a pacifying gesture when people glare, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean.

_...Seven...Six..._

“Is it really you?” Castiel’s voice is dark and thick like the honey that aged alongside the whiskey in Dean’s pocket and Dean’s rooted to the ground. “I never thought…” 

Blinking back tears of surprise and disbelief, all Dean can think to do is hold out his hands, open his arms, and welcome Castiel home. Thankfully, _thank fucking God,_ Castiel comes, crashing into Dean’s chest and crushing him with an arm around his ribs and one flung around his shoulders. 

_...Four...Three..._

When Castiel pulls back, his cheeks are damp but he’s smiling. _Oh,_ he’s _smiling_ and he’s leaning in and Dean goes, pressing their lips together perfectly as the countdown reaches _two...one…_ And the crowd roars around them, celebrations exploding left and right as the ball reaches its destination at the bottom of the spire. 

Meanwhile, in their own little bubble, Dean’s hands slide against Castiel’s stubbled cheeks, cupping his face, and Dean might be babbling about _finding you_ into Castiel’s mouth, has no idea and Castiel can’t hear him anyway, even if he is. 

Pyrotechnics explode from the sides of One Times Square and confetti drizzles down like rain. As Dean pulls back in awe, hands still firmly grasping both sides of Castiel’s head, fragile pieces of paper settle in their hair and on their shoulders. The band on the stage is playing _Auld Lang Syne_ and Dean removes one hand— _just one—_ to pinch his own cheek because this _has_ to be a dream.

But Castiel laughs and pulls him in by the lapels of his shitty canvas jacket to kiss him again, and it’s then that Dean knows this is not a dream because he’s still fucking cold. Castiel is _warm,_ though, his mouth and his body—warm and solid and somehow _here,_ and Dean is never going to let him go again. Whatever it takes, _this_ is what he’s been searching for, right here. 

He pulls away just far enough to kiss the corner of Castiel’s mouth, his cheek, his jaw, all the way over to his ear. “I’ve been looking,” he says, loud enough for Castiel to hear over the celebrations raging around them. “I never stopped trying to find you.” 

“I never stopped trying to find _you.”_ Castiel’s voice sounds in his own ear and Dean is _flying,_ can’t believe this is happening. “Come on,” he adds, moving away as an aggressive wave of people surges towards them, intent on dispersing to their hotels and to various forms of public transportation. 

When Castiel pulls him inside the gallery Dean’s never been so relieved, and not just because it’s, well, Cas, or because it’s warm. As the crush of people presses past their plate-glass window, Dean thinks distractedly that it’s good he’s not a claustrophobic person, because this would feel a lot like being trapped. 

“Was that Gabriel I saw with you before?” Dean asks as he glances around and sees no one, but there’s a door leading out of the gallery and Castiel motions to it. 

“I’m sure he took off,” Castiel replies. “You know how Gabriel is, he hasn’t changed. This is his space, he does fairly well helping New York City’s elite part with their cash in exchange for overpriced indie art pieces. He also has an apartment upstairs.”

“Do you live with him?” 

Castiel laughs and steps back into Dean’s space, fingering the edge of his jacket. “Could you? No, I share a live-work artists’ space in Red Hook, I’ve been there for years. It’s not _mine,_ but at least it’s affordable. Gabriel was kind enough to showcase some of my work tonight, that’s why I’m here. If he doesn’t rip me off, I should have enough to make my portion of the rent.” Rolling his eyes, Castiel lets go of Dean for just long enough to lock the door and punch in the alarm code until it blinks red, _armed._ Such a mundane act, but in this context, it feels surreal.

“Boy, he really hasn’t changed,” Dean huffs, letting Cas take his hand and lead him towards the back of the store.

“He’s Gabriel,” Castiel replies, unbothered. 

Dean pauses when his eyes catch some of the framed works up close, his jaw dropping when the images finally coalesce and make sense in his head. Cas’ arm goes taut between them and he turns, though he doesn’t look surprised at Dean’s shock, and of course, why would he be? These paintings are obviously _his._

“Holy shit,” Dean murmurs, the fingers of his free hand reaching out to trace his own face, albeit younger, but unmistakable even in textured oils and abstract colors. There are more, at least four, sporting all different but recognizable expressions from his own mirror in each of them. Staring wide-eyed, Dean sees himself smiling, scowling, pensive, sad. 

“Painting kept you from fading,” Castiel says quietly, tapping his temple with an index finger. 

“Cas,” Dean says, incredulous, turning into Castiel’s space to hug him again, to clutch him fiercely and kiss the side of his head in a rough, possessive gesture. He laughs when he remembers what’s in his pocket and pulls it out, pressing it into Castiel’s hands. “It’s no work of art,” Dean admits ruefully. “My coping mechanisms still ain’t even half that healthy.” 

But Castiel grins and twists the cap off immediately, taking a sip and closing his eyes, one hand twisting back in Dean’s own just as soon as it’s free. Dean watches him, wonders if he’s flashing back to all those warm nights out on his father’s boat behind his eyelids the same way Dean does whenever he’s anywhere near that stuff. 

When Castiel’s eyes open again, hazy and dilated, Dean swallows hard, sure that he has his answer. He leans forward and kisses Castiel softly, lingering as the smooth punch of whiskey slips over his tongue, _exactly_ how he remembers it tasting all those years ago. 

“Happy New Year, Cas,” Dean murmurs, unwilling to let Castiel go. Hell, he may never let him go again.

Seemingly perfectly okay with that, Castiel just sways gently as he wraps both arms over Dean’s shoulders and around his neck, tilting his head to the side to get the perfect angle on their next kiss. His mouth is soft and warm, his stubble the perfect amount of scratchy against Dean’s cheek to let him know this is _real,_ that Cas is definitely here, in his arms. Their kissing is somehow hot and sweet at the same time and when Castiel pulls back to breathe for a second, he’s not the only one struggling to catch his breath. 

From less than an inch away, he licks his lips and sighs happily against Dean’s mouth. “Happy New Year, Dean.” 

For the first time in a very long time, to Dean at least, it feels like it might be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, friends!
> 
> Here’s the tumblr link if you’d like to give this fic a reblog: 
> 
> [New All Over Again](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/189762565696/new-all-over-again)


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